


it's only for a year

by kaixo (ballpoint), Readbyanalise010



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Family of Choice, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-07 16:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12845352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/kaixo, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Readbyanalise010/pseuds/Readbyanalise010
Summary: An AU where Vincent decides to say yes to an English club on loan (Brighton), and he and Christian try to make it work between them. It’s only for a year, they tell themselves. There’s distance, but they try to slide in their lives around one another.





	it's only for a year

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ItsADrizzit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsADrizzit/gifts).



Cover Art created by Rscreighton.

  
**Streaming:**

For mobile streaming: **[***Click here***](http://analise010.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/%5bFootball%20RPF%5d%20only%20for%20a%20year.mp3)**

**Download** (right-click and save) the **[MP3](http://analise010.parakaproductions.com/Podfic/%5bFootball%20RPF%5d%20only%20for%20a%20year.mp3)** || Size: 52 MB || Duration: 00:55:39 

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“Brighton,” Toby raised an eyebrow. “Again?”

Christian shrugged into his jacket, patting his pockets, nodding his head in satisfaction at feeling his car fob there. The day’s training over, Christian excused himself quickly from all conversations in order to get changed and on the road in the shortest possible time. Clicking his locker door shut, he briefly thought about ignoring Toby, but he wasn’t a stroppy teenager, and hadn’t been one in a long time. 

“I’ll be back in time for training,” Christian said, lifting his head to look at his friend. Toby zipping his hoodie up, and slipping into his unlaced trainers. “We have a day off tomorrow, so...” he let his voice trail off, but the implied _that’s none of your business_ came through loud and clear. Toby wasn’t one to be deterred by strategic stony silences, however, dropping to one knee as he quickly tied his laces and then the other, hopping up to close the distance between them both before Christian took two steps towards the door. 

“When are you going to give this up, Christian?”

“Goodbye, Toby,” Christian grabbed for his knapsack which sat obediently on the low bench in front of the lockers this time. Nine times out of ten, it usually toppled over and fell, contents spilling all over the floor. “I’m off.”

“Christian--”

“ _Ik kan je niet boven het geluid van mijn slechte keuzes uit horen_ ,” Christian answered breezily in Dutch, earning puzzled looks from Eric and H as he passed them by in the doorway. 

“What’s that about?” Eric craned his neck watching as Christian rushed by, before swinging his head back to Toby, now standing in the middle of the changing room. Lockers along the sides of the walls, low slung benches for the comfort of sitting down and pulling your shoes on. 

Shaking his head, Toby shrugged his own backpack on his shoulder, slamming his locker door shut. 

“Nothing,” Toby shook his head, waved off the question as he walked towards the doorway, making his own way out. Christian’s mistakes were his to make alone, and the last thing he needed or wanted was an audience watching on.

***

“Choccywoccywhat-?” Christian laughed, tucking his hands into the pocket of his jacket, eyes squinting against the bracing wind that came off the sea.

“Choccywoccydoodah,” Davy grinned, running his hand through the waves of his hair. Today, Davy boasted an extreme undercut, the top of his hair overgrown, the sides shaved bald. The shock of fringe falling across his forehead. As soon his hands left his hair, the sea breeze tugged it into a warped mohawk. 

“It’s quite good, if you’re into chocolate and cake. And chocolate cake. Besides, you’re here, and I’d be a bad host if I didn’t show you this landmark. I know Vincent won’t.”

“Well,” Christian began, as they turned onto the busy street, stopping short as the shop windows caught his eye. Paused outside of the store. The storefront of dark and laminated wood with the brass number 3 above the doorway. Cakes of women in full skirts and parasols walking across a field of grass in the windows. 

Stepping in, he paused, half wondering if he stepped into a menagerie or a taxidermist’s haunt instead of a cake shop. It was too quiet to be a menagerie however, and too colourful for taxidermy: the animals lifelike but frozen, forever posing still. Against the red, lustrous paint on the walls were shelves. On the shelves, animals on top of cakes, or animals as cakes. A fox sitting down, paw up, with a butterfly on his nose. The reddish brown fur with the white tip of the tail, his dark noise moist, the butterfly delicately perched on its tip. 

Another cake in the shape of Alice, from Alice in Wonderland storybook fame, her eyes wide with curiosity as she read the square cake in her dimpled hands EAT ME. The sky blue eyes matching the full skirt. The dazzling white of apron matching her stockings. Alice kneeling down on a tuft of grass which formed the surface of the cake. 

Amazing. 

His attention caught by a labrador with floppy ears, eyes wide and shiny as boots, paw raised as if saying hi, caramel coloured coat brushed with a subtle sheen. 

“You can eat that?” Christian murmured, admiring the workmanship and the time that must have done into all of these. A parrot sitting in a cage, the little card telling what it was made of. The gnarled branches fashioned from licorice, the deep brown colour and texture making it a good choice. Somewhere, under all that fondant fashioned into jewelled feathers and colours supposedly hid red velvet cake. 

“Yeah, they do cakes to order,” Davy explained. “Their stuff is delicious-” at Christian’s askance look, with arched eyebrows, Davy grinned. “Or so I hear. Mandy’s been wanting to try one, so I thought I’d order a cake for her birthday.”

The sugar rush would be enough to make anyone slip into a diabetic coma, Christian thought, but was too polite to say.

“The cafe is upstairs, we can have a coffee and wait for Vincent,” Davy said, “if you wish.”

“Just a coffee, right?” Christian warily eyed the oversized menu on the black chalkboard detailing nothing but permutations of chocolate and caramel; from milkshakes to brownies, to pumps of syrup in coffee. His teeth hurt just thinking about it. “No choccywoccywhatever?”

“Just a coffee.”

***

“The PL is no joke,” Davy said, as they sipped at their expressos. Good, strong shots of coffee, served with lumps of sugar and bits of cream on the side if you wished. Christian wrinkled his nose at the offerings, bemused. Espresso was best enjoyed alone: a short, bitter adrenaline shot of a drink, with minimum of fuss. But then, this cafe was devoted to whimsical excess, from its outsized bay windows, Victorian puce coloured walls, to the oversized menus and the pastry scented air. “I understand why Vincent had his troubles last year,” he continued. “The defenders are stronger, and the physicality... murder.”

“Yeah,” Christian agreed, because four years ago, he’d been in the same position. Coming from the Eredivisie, where you had space to play football, to show the fullness of your game. In England, the action faster, the spaces smaller, the defenders on you as soon as you blinked, and the referees making play run on in situations where the players would have gotten cards in the Dutch league. “I’ve been there.”

“ _Ja_ ,” Davy continued. “Vincent must be tired of me in his ear, ‘is this normal’?”

“How’s he enjoying Brighton?” Christian took the opportunity to ask, with Vincent not being here. He had an appointment with a repairman at his apartment. 

_Sorry,_ the text had said, _running late. Davy will show you around until I get there._

“It’s hard not to enjoy Brighton,” Davy raised dark eyebrows. From their vantage point, the sea shimmered in the distance like dreams. “But he’s getting better. His movement, his confidence... it’s a pleasure to play with him.”

Christian expelled a breath he didn’t know that he’d been holding. Almost closed his eyes with the relief of it, but before he could react, Davy looked up and towards the shadow that fell across the doorway. 

Grinned. 

“Vincent,” he got up, closing the distance between them as they greeted each other with a modified high five followed through with a one-armed hug. Christian got to his feet, but stayed by his table, observing them both like opponents on the field of play.

“Davy,” Vincent greeted, a flush riding high on his cheekbones, due to the continuous sharp slap of the wind outside. He looked good, not just physically- Vincent had always been a handsome lad who carried himself with the ease that most athletes at their level did. Today in a warm grey hoodie with jeans and trainers, looking more like a college student than someone who played ball for a living. Auburn-coloured hair short and spiky, facial hair still the same, skin still with a tint of tan, considering summer and autumn were already gone. 

He looked good _mentally_ : smiled more, dimples creasing his cheeks, slight laugh lines at the corner of his eyes, an occupational hazard from squinting in all kinds of weather as soon as you could kick a ball. His frown lines smoothed out, only flirting to the surface when he raised his eyebrows in surprise. 

“ _Ja_ , Vincent finished, the conversation with Davy trailing off as he looked over to the table where Christian stood. The smile he sent in Christian’s direction so potent, it might have made him lightheaded. “Christian,” in the space of two heartbeats, he enveloped him in a hug, and Christian returned the embrace, breathing the soap clean scent of Vincent in before they broke apart, Vincent’s hand lingering on Christian’s shoulder. 

“I’m so glad you’re here. You didn’t come by train, I hope?”

“Uh... no,” Christian shook his head. “I got your message about that, thanks.”

“Okay,” Davy drawled, “Christian isn’t a fan of this place, fearing that he’ll slip into diabetic shock if we hang around long enough. Shall we go?”

“Thanks for the babysitting duties,” Christian offered a hand as soon as they stepped out in the busy street, breathing in the air. Not close enough to the ocean for it to be brisk sea air, but still crisp enough. 

Davy returned the handshake. “It’s fine, it was nice meeting you, Christian. I can tell people I’ve met a Tottenham Hotspur player, in the flesh. I won’t ask you for a shirt though.”

“I’ll send you one,” Christian answered, liking Davy more and more. 

“If you must,” Davy answered, “you can add your signature.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, get lost,” Vincent waved him off. Davy paused, dark eyes darting between Vincent and Christian. Christian then Vincent. Shook his head as if he didn’t understand the question asked of him. 

“I’m gone, see you at training tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

With a wave, Davy turned on his heel and walked off, leaving Christian and Vincent eyeing each other, unnoticed by the thinning daytime crowd, mostly grandmothers or mothers with children in their prams walking along the promenade. 

“Let’s walk,” Vincent said.

***

In all the time that he’d been living in England, Christian had never been to Brighton pier. Oh, he’d been to Brighton - only an hour’s drive from London after all for a fun weekend out- but never Brighton pier.

Today would be no different. 

Although he could see it, spearing out all the way out to the body of the restless inky sea, its form lit and glowing, vibrating against the early winter’s night sky. BRIGHTON PLEASURE PIER spelt out in illuminations. The pier lit with attractions of an amusement park. He’d listened to the audiobook about the history of Brighton and its pier on the way down. Knew about the 67.000 bulbs it took to illuminate it, and how repainting it took three months out of every year. 

“No one who lives here goes to the pier,” Vincent explained as they picked their way across the pebbled beach, walking beside each other, their shoulders brushing. Early evening, fingers of the tide creeping in steadily, “nor The Carousel, nor Helter Skelter.”

“I don’t live here,” Christian stopped walking, hands tucked in his pockets, shooting a smile at Vincent. 

Vincent’s grin sharp and playful as he had the last word. “But I do.”

“I---”

Christian tilted his head, a shifting shadow overhead snagging his attention. The noise hit his ears a few seconds later, swarm of birds shrieking and the reverb of their cries caught off him off guard. Thousands of them: a streaming, swooping, shifting black mass moving in a fluid form across the sky. Their movement so unceasing and flowing, the eyes unable to isolate the shapes they formed because they never stayed in one shape as they zigged-zagged above them. 

A twisted loop in the form of a DNA molecule. 

A heart, beating and vibrating, rotating as smooth as a carousel ride. 

A seal, its nose tipped upward to balance a ball, falling headfirst into a stream; birds separating, reforming. The flat shape of a flipper. Before elongating into a snakelike form, all as one, in predestined orientation, slithering away in neat undulating movements, halfway across the sea. 

“It’s called a murmuration,” Vincent explained, voice at his ear. “The birds are... starlings?”

Christian had seen the phenomena before, but didn’t know the word in English. He turned into Vincent, their faces a hair’s breath from each other. “So,” Christian drew out the word, his eyes on Vincent’s face. “If I can’t walk on the pier, see the Carousel, or the Helter Skelter, what can I do?”

***

In Brighton, there was always something to do.

A bit too early in the year for the Zombie Walk, Vincent assured Christian ( _Zombie Walk?_ ), so they joined The Ghost Walk of the Lanes instead. 

Brighton Old Town Hall, the buildings looming overhead in the dark, the surroundings the dark brown colour of overly steeped tea. In this light, the coving of shells and flowers that decorated the buildings in the day, transmogrified into leering, lumpy gargoyles at night. In the distance, the lights of the pier far away. 

Even as the crowd ebbed and flowed around them both, the atmosphere of the walk giving the feeling of being alone. Christian leaning into Vincent, slipping his hand into his and linking their fingers together. 

The Speaker’s voice suitably dramatic as he told them about the ghosts that still roamed here. 

A notable one being The Blue Nun around the Black Lion Pub. 

“Not because of the colour of the habit that she wore,” their speaker said, touching his stovetop hat, a detail of his impressive 19th century get up. “No, ’twas because of her face,” he stopped, stepped towards a patron nearest to him, his fingers long, his gesture a touch malevolent. “Swollen, battered, blue from axisphiation.”

On a half gasp, the patron stepped back, the rest of the crowd skidding around him, their eyes scanning their surroundings. A busy pub, people bustling to and fro. Other storefronts shut down for the night, casting the street into inky shadows. The streets narrow, bordering on claustrophobic. Some nervous giggles, as people murmured amongst themselves. “All of this, because of an illicit affair with a fisherman. She still roams the Lanes today. Will shuffle up to you as easy as you please, and you think it’s a vagrant. You step forward to offer her money and then -” the pause. “ _You see her face_ and she reaches for YOU.”

After that story, the others didn’t seem so bad, but still spooky. A headless ghost around Druid’s head that showed itself to patrons. The Hangman of Hangleton who roamed the area, not yet realising there was no more need for his grisly work. The ravens that circled around Brighton? They still showed up, waiting to pick at the dead. The story told in such a matter of way, it elicited gasps and mutters of people easily spooked, the shuffling of feet as people tramped on ahead. 

_Oh, and this is where the tour ends, do have a good night, won’t you? Or try._

By nine, they found themselves at the Green Door Store. 

Not the sleek party bar rumoured to be owned by a famous DJ that lived around these parts, but a more casual outfit, the vibe mixed with a bit of camp and a lot of music, the lyrics to the songs projected on the walls all around them. A lot of Britpop from the 1990s, like Blur’s _Parklife_ booming out of the speaker. Christian had lived in England long enough to not only know the song, but have some measure of affection for it. People raised their hands, singing drunkenly to the lyrics and danced around them, beer sloshing from the edges of their pint glasses, splashing everywhere and dampening the air around them like sea spray. 

Vincent bopped his head to the tune, his face a frown, him a bit unsure of the rhythm and the actual song. The chorus simple and bouncy enough for him to get over his initial reticence and join in, arm around the shoulders of another drunken random stranger. By the time _Coffee and TV_ kicked in, his frown smoothed away and he joined in now, all dimples and smiles. Christian’s eyes never left Vincent’s face all this time, his emotions tied to the expressions there. Blur now finished and the Britpop got replaced by the jaunty beats of Stardust’s _Music Sounds Better With You_. 

The lyrics in and of themselves frothy, fun and a bit annoying. An effective earworm though, that found him mouthing the lyrics to Vincent, who joined in. As he sang, still gazing at Vincent, Vincent smiling at him, Christian understood how true they were. 

In that moment, Christian finally understood the gravity of Toby’s warnings, but sun drunk like Icarus, he didn’t care. 

That night, when they came together, everything felt new again. 

That strange sort of shyness that stole over you, stripping naked for someone for the first time; your eyes literally not knowing where to look as they undressed too. The gaze snagging on the curve of shoulder, the flex of upper arms. The line of his jaw, his dimples winking at very movement. Or the column of his neck, throat moving as he swallowed, or--

Vincent saving them both by stroking Christian’s cheek, his eyes huge and bright even in the dimmest of lights, in the hotel room Christian rented for the night, the room illuminated by the streetlights outside. Their noses bumped against each other, the scrape of Vincent’s scruff against his skin, his head angled just so, licking into Christian’s open mouth, their tongues sliding against each other hot and slick. 

“ _More_ ,” Christian whispered when they broke for breath, sliding an arm around Vincent’s neck, the other hand drifting to his hip, knowing that in this, he wouldn’t refuse. Another kiss, and it was better than the one before that, and the one before that. 

The air whooshing around him, as they came together once more, the mattress giving way under their weight. 

The shock of electricity as their skins rubbed and brushed against each other; their kisses slow and spinning out into forever. His fingers committing every nook and lump and scar to memory as if reading braille, his mouth following the path of his hands. When Vincent gasped his name _just like that_ , full of surprise and wonder, his smile brilliant as daylight in the dim, nothing else mattered.

***

At the end of training, Christian had days where he’d stay behind, practicing free kicks under the the floodlights of the training pitch, the sun already tucked away for the day. He’d have the PL Nike balls lined in a row, eyeing the mannequins in front of goal. Took a step back, and another one. Set off in a short, loping run, foot connecting with the ball - and he knew that it wasn’t taken well as soon as the ball left his boot, the ball shooting way past the net.

Shaking his head in disgust, he rubbed his hands together, chaffing them into warmth, cleared the decks, and he was ready to go again. 

Did a double take when he saw Mousa, Jan and Toby sitting in the mini bleachers, along the sidelines of the field. They hunkered together in the chill like a murder of crows, Jan and Toby’s hair a dull gold under the lights, a contrast to Mousa’s dark curly afro that seemingly absorbed the darkness around them. 

Christian knew why they were here. 

That’s fine, let them watch, Christian thought, raising his hand out of habit, a half apology to his imaginary teammates on the field who would have rued that wasted kick for a chance at goal. He settled himself for a few seconds. Set off in a short trot again, his instep connecting with the ball. As soon as it connected with his boot, he knew it was in the back of the net, as sure as the sunrise.

***

“I... really?” Mousa questioned as he pulled the earplug from his ear, looking at Christian quizzically, before dropping his eye to the earplug in his hand. “What is this?”

“It’s...” Christian frowned, “music?”

“It’s not really your --- well---” Mousa said, relaxing into his plane seat. Everyone still buzzing around them, high from their draw with Real Madrid in the seething cauldron of the Bernabeu. Pochettino’s face in wreathes of smiles as he shook everyone’s hand as they boarded the plane, even Dele - who couldn’t even play- but you already felt his joy in the win short lived, his mind flipping over to the next match. Christian stomped on the plane with the rest of them, phone off as asked until the lights said otherwise. His mp3 player on, and Mousa puzzling over the choice of the song. “You’re an _Imagine Dragons_ man. I mean, _Stardust_?”

“Don’t you like the song?” Christian made his eyes wide, knowing that people brought it as him being clueless. It helped that he had a quiff like Tintin, the cartoon character by Herge, and he had five years to exploit that wide-eyed stare that made people dismiss things a bit easier. 

Mousa- like Jan and Toby -knew him a bit too well to be classified as _other people_. 

“I--- guess?” The corner of Mousa’s mouth swung up, dimples creasing his cheeks with amusement. “It’s not really like you, but... it’s a decent dance hit.” He punched Christian lightly on his shoulder. “Congratulations.”

Christian looked at the song on the LCD screen, _Music Sounds Better With You_ by Stardust, and thought about Vincent, and that night in Brighton.

***

**13/12/2017**

**Tottenham Hotspur vs Brighton Hove Albion**

Christmas fixtures rolled in, the high of qualifying for the Champions League knockout stages now a distant memory as the matches piled on. Fifteen matches in eighteen days. The weather as ugly and bruising as the lower sides that they faced. The cold and wet sapped your energy- and every run, every tackle, every win took psychic chunks out of your spirit. 

At the end of the match with Brighton and Hove, Christian wiped at his nose on his sleeve, blinking the sweat from his eyes. The crowds in fine voice because both teams acquitted themselves well, thrilling the supporters with enjoyable football. 

“Davy,” he greeted with a casual hug, “good match.”

“You too,” Davy returned, his face sheened with sweat, despite the chill of the air around them, their words forming a mist every time they spoke. 

“Are you going down tonight, then?”

“No, it’s too late. We’re staying by _The Green_ , in Islington.”

“Ah,” Christian nodded as they turned to move off the pitch, both sets of supporters singing and shouting and jeering at each other. _Did Vincent ---_ he wanted to ask, but didn’t, giving him another hug before they parted, walking towards the tunnels which lead to the dressing rooms. 

As soon as Christian changed, he checked his phone, pulse skittering as he saw the message icon on his WhatsApp, unable to stop himself from breaking into a smile as he read the messages, and who they were from. 

Looked up, casting glances to see if anyone noticed his reactions.

No, everyone else half battered by the match and just... fatigue. Christian did the calculation, knowing that they’d have tomorrow off. They’d be back for Friday to work on shape and tactics for Saturday’s match against Manchester City, who were in a rich vein of form at the minute.

***

“Sorry I’m not good company,” Christian murmured, half asleep, his head tucked under Vincent’s chin, his arm a warm weight across his chest. Vincent didn’t say a word, just linked their fingers together.

“You play a match at 8:00pm for two hours, and the-” Christian broke off into a yawn, his breath skittering across Vincent’s chest. They were in a nondescript hotel room in a fair to middling hotel in the north of London. Vincent hadn’t travelled with the team, preferring to find his own way into London to spend a few hours with Christian before making his way back in the morning. They both curled under bedclothes like puppies, Christian’s body warm and heavy on his. “T-this is what you get.”

“A sleepy Christian.”

“Hmmph.”

The room in total darkness, save the ambient light coming from their charging phones on the bedside table, enough light to see the bare outline of the room. Curtains drawn against the lights outside, the room quiet save the ticking of Vincent’s analogue watch also on the bedside table. 

“You played very well tonight.”

“Thank you, I think. I wish _you’d_ have played tonight, so I could have seen you up close.”

“Hmm. Loan players don’t play against their parent clubs.”

“More’s the pity. I’ve been watching you when I can, and your movement’s improved, especially in the final third. It would have been great to see that in person.”

“Just one year, right?” Vincent stroked the curve of Christian’s shoulder with his free hand, his eyes adjusting to the minimal light. 

“Uh oh.”

“Uh oh?”

“I know that voice,” Christian shifted in Vincent’s arms, and he loosened his hold. Christian’s weight settling in a different way, his hair not tickling Vincent’s chin anymore. The warmed mouth wash scented breath on his face. “It’s your doom and gloom voice.”

“Doom and --?” Vincent started, stopped. Frowned. “I don’t think so. My voice is my voice.”

“What do you think?”

“I don’t know what to think.”

“Vince--”

“The club sends their rep, we sit and talk and I tell them what I think, and they go, ‘Ah, yes. I’ll pass that on’ and leave me no less in the dark than I am now.”

A half breath, a half sigh of sympathy. “Oh, _Vincent_. I think that’s the way of it in most clubs. Also, you’re playing every week and --”

“It will work out,” Vincent sighed, “or not. As these things do. Or don’t. Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“Fine,” Christian laughed, directly on top of his chest now, arms folded, elbows poking in his shoulders. “What shall we talk about, then?”

Vincent shook his head, “I don’t want to talk about anything?”

“Fine,” Christian’s voice soft, amused, almost disembodied. 

Another movement, his thighs sliding on either side of Vincent’s torso, the feel of skin and the cotton of his boxers a pleasing drag against his own flesh. Christian’s arms on either side, his body just hovering over Vincent as if doing a half plank, the heat from his torso another thing that he found enthralling. He found all aspects of Christian fascinating really, specifically, his voice. Especially the notes in his accent, and how they changed sonically as it moved from the sleepy tinged Dutch to softly accented English. “If you don’t want to talk... What do you want to do?”

After a pregnant pause, Vincent reached up, stroked along Christian’s furred jaw. He’d taken to growing his facial hair out, a full sandy beard that made Vincent slightly envious, because his own scruff tended to be patchy. Swallowed the lump in his throat, unable to put his wants into words that made sense, palming the nape of Christian’s neck, drawing their heads together. 

The first kiss, more of a sigh. Way past the fumbling and jouncing of teeth, because they knew each other’s angles intimately now. An action starting out as a kind of a comfort, Christian filling his senses in the way only he could. A nip at his lip turning it into something else sharper, darker. Added to that, a touch of wild emotion that added danger. 

_Vince--_ Christian’s voice breaking off into a choked breath, the pulse at his throat kicking up under his fingers, his heart beating doubletime. This -- it felt like drowning. No firm surface to cling to- emotions as slippery and heavy and needed- like water. His hands now on Christian, his body sleek with sweat and slippery as time, and like time, Christian wouldn’t stay, couldn’t stay. 

The next morning, when Vincent stirred, he reached for Christian, feeling the already cooled space, knowing that he’d already left. 

Checked his phone, read the message sent to his Whatsapp. _It’s only for a year_ , Christian wrote. _It’s already Christmas. We’ll get there._

***

It had been a while since Christian dropped by Mousa’s house.

Mousa, as well as Jan, had young children, it didn’t seem fair to intrude into their living spaces; which is why they all had their pow wows at Toby’s house, because Toby only had a partner, and no children. Mousa’s children and their mother now away for a bit, and Mousa played the good host, even getting a brand new jigsaw puzzle for Christian to work on, setting the box on the coffee table. 

Actually, it had been a while since they all spent some time together, outside of training. 

Christian sat cross legged on the carpet while he opened the box and scattered the pieces across the smooth surface of the glass table _Where’s Wally?_ Ha - Christian sighed in, appreciation of his friends, and the fact that they knew him so well. 

A jigsaw puzzle, the background noise tuned to a Belgian Dutch speaking radio station, Toby, Vincent and Jan in the kitchen speaking loudly and preparing food. Not yet the New Year, but Christmas definitely over, and Christian wondering why they’d all spent so much time apart. They fit every time when they came together, like slipping into comfortable broken-in jeans. Cosy as a well worn blanket that existed as long as you were aware of being alive. 

Knew why they hadn’t seen each other over these past few weeks, because he tried to avoid Toby’s sharp gaze. 

Knew the questions Toby would ask of him, and it felt tiring to walk around with a steel rod in his spine to give off the vibes that certain questions were off limits all the time. Eventually, they called a tacit truce, because they loved him -- Christian knew they did-- because they didn’t ask about his plans with Vincent anymore. Now bringing snacks into the room - baked sweet potato chips with dip that stayed within their meal plans- they filled the room with their bodies and their presence, just sitting on and sprawling across the sofas being comfortable with each other.

The bits of conversation flowing all around him in Dutch and Flemish, as he already filled in a huge corner size of the puzzle. Mousa had gotten him a 250 piece one, which was child’s work compared to the bigger puzzle projects he took on. 

Blessedly straightforward enough to allow his mind to wander on - and about- Vincent. They’d exchanged messages this morning, Vincent sending him a video of the players celebrating in the Brighton dressing room cheering over a win. 

Another three points! 

“We’re nearer to staying up in the division,” Vincent’s smile unabashed and unmistakably gleeful as his phone camera shook and jostled because of the din around him. Davy grinned and waved in the background, one hand holding up the towel at his waist, he in a state of half dress like everyone else. “Just six more months!” Vincent yelled, blowing a kiss to the camera.

 _Just six more months_ Christian sighed at the memory, slotting in another piece. 

“How’s Vincent doing?” Mousa asked, “Brighton and Hove did really well to get three points off Burnley, considering how well they’re doing this season.”

“He’s okay,” Christian couldn’t help his mouth curving into a half smile. “He’s doing great, he’s loving the team and the area.”

“Do you think --” Toby started, and then stopped. The expression on his face tentative, as he frowned and bit his lip, cutting off the rest of the question. At this moment, Christian realised the situation between them could no longer continue. 

“Hey,” Christian interrupted, “Mousa, Jan, can you give us a minute?”

“Sorry?” That was Mousa, chip halfway to his mouth, before he dropped it, a fumble before he caught it in his cupped hand. 

“I--” Christian sighed, raised his hand to shoulder height. “Please. I need to speak to Toby alone.”

“Okay,” Jan said, slapping his hands on the faux leather of the sofa on either side of him, pushing himself to his feet. Turning to Mousa he held out his hand, Mousa slapping a hold, his fingers high on Jan’s forearm. “Come on, Mous’ “

“Fine. Call us when you need us. We’ll be in the kitchen.” Mousa only paused long enough to grab the backgammon set from the nearby windowsill before they tripped up the few stairs and away from Toby and Christian, leaving them both alone. 

Christian scrambled to his feet, padded around the coffee table where his puzzle lay, and sat on the sofa beside Toby, the space still warm from Jan’s imprint. 

Toby had been the last addition to their little group at Tottenham Hotspur; although they’d known each other from Ajax, their time away from each other only made them appreciate each other more when together. When he arrived at Spurs, he slotted into their lives as easily as he’d slotted into Mauricio Pochettino’s starting XI, and Toby was just as fundamental to his life as he was to Spurs’ successes and Pochettino’s title plans. 

“I need you,” Christian started, looking at his linked hands as he threaded his fingers together, not able to look up as yet. The confession that lay heavy on his heart hard to say, but it needed to be said. “I need all of you- and Jan and Mousa- but especially _you_ , Toby. I need you to keep asking me about things. Even things that I don’t have an answer to. I’ve put the position on you on not asking, and I’m sorry. I don’t want you to ever feel that you can’t challenge me on anything.”

“Even about Vincent?”

Christian expelled a breath, daring to look up at his friend’s face, his hair swept back into the gelled mini pompadour, his forehead furrowed into a worried line, his blue-grey eyes narrowed with wariness. Christian nudged at Toby’s knee with his. “Yes, especially about Vincent.”

“Even when you can’t hear me over the sound of your bad decisions?”

Christian winced, having his words thrown back at him. “I deserve that,” he said after a minute. He deserved more stick if truth be told, and if Toby, Jan and Mousa decided to freeze him out, he understood that too. 

“What about Vincent?” Toby moved on, and Christian looked away, blinking once, because Toby had let him off the hook when he didn’t need to, and slotted into the friend that he needed, asking the questions he shied away from asking himself. 

“When are you going to give this up, Christian?”

“I--” Christian turned towards Toby, unable to hide anything. Knew everything what he felt about Vincent now scrawled across his face like graffiti on a formerly pristine wall. Toby blinked once, twice, his face settling into lines of sympathy. “I don’t know.”

“Oh, _Christian_ ,” Toby sighed, shaking his head with a rueful twist to his lips. “You dumb bastard.”

Christian couldn’t help laughing, wincing at how bitter it sounded. “Yeah,” he covered his eyes with his hand, unable to deny or defend himself against Toby’s judgement. “The dumbest.”

***

“So,” Davy began as they tramped into the showers after training. The New Year already feeling old. Vincent wondering why he was doing applied Math instead of the art of football, spending time thinking about the teams around them and working out points difference, goal difference, and analysing the games ahead to see where points could be gained - or lost.

West Ham, Swansea and Everton hovering around the bottom spots, but Brighton and Hove couldn’t be seen to make a clean getaway as yet. Newcastle dancing into the top half of the table, and wasn’t that just madness. 

It was only February, everyone told themselves, they had time to gather points for safety, but the season finished in mid May. 

“So?”

“You’ve been here for seven months, what do you think?”

“It’s a good club, with a good vibe,” Vincent slid his feet into his Nike slides, grabbed at his wash bag and stomping towards the shower. The din bearable because everyone was happy, the season going well. Vincent’s eyes blind to everyone in varying stages of nudity, because it was what it was. He walked on, sighting a free shower cubicle. Got stuck in, did his business quickly. Came out of the showers not surprised to see Davy there, already changed in street clothes. Davy had been at him for the past few weeks, asking him about his future. 

“My parent club is Tottenham.”

“But Pochettino hasn’t been talking about you, not even when asked.”

Vincent opened his locker, grabbed at his underwear and jeans. He let his towel drop as he shrugged into both at the same time. 

“I know.”

“The summer transfer window opens, even if you go back---” Davy paused, his eyes narrowing. “You mightn’t even stay.”

Nothing to say but another, “I know,” as he shrugged into his hoodie, ran his hands through the short, spikiness of his hair and called it a job done. 

“Vincent--”

“What do you want me to say, Davy?” Vincent snapped, turning around on his friend. “I _know_ what the press is saying, I know what my gaffer says, I know --” _I have four more months_. 

“I want you to stay,” Davy said, not stepping back, not ceding ground. “I think we can do great things, and you’re liked here. The players like you, the gaffer likes you. You’re doing well enough here.”

“But Brighton and Hove--”

“Aren’t Tottenham, I know. I know. We aren’t a top four club with Champions League ambitions, but we’re laying the grounds of something honest. If we can stay up, who knows what next year will bring.”

“Davy--”

“Christian would understand.”

Vincent froze, made his face go blank. Davy scanned their dressing room, saw no one. But to be sure, he slipped into Dutch. “I thought so,” he nodded, his voice matter of fact. “Of all the people in the world, he’d know what football is like. I know Brighton and Hove aren’t Tottenham and we might never be, but think about it, okay?” Davy touched his shoulder. “We’re still in a PL club and in the big leagues.”

“I’ll think about it.”

Davy smiled, “that’s all I ask. Just give us a good think before you decide where to go, and no hard feelings either way, _ja_?”

“ _Ja_.”

***

**Brighton, April 2018**

This time around, when Christian came down for a visit, he got the full tour of Brighton from Vincent. They started at Brighton Royal Pavilion, a seaside palace built for George IV, a mix of architectural styles that might have been called tacky if the lines of the building hadn’t been so clean and the detailing so rigorous. A mash up of the Indo Saracenic - those onion shaped domes topping the buildings- and sharp arches, with Regency - calling for strict, tidy lines and white stucco that blazed in the sun. They roamed the expansive grounds, Vincent playing tour guide. 

The evening stole in, but given that the days were longer, they still had time to walk along the seaside, Vincent showing him The Carousel, a bright, ice cream coloured example of an amusement curio from in the Victorian era, placed near enough to the sea to be magic. An oversized merry-go-round, with the distinctive tinny jingle of music, the white noise of the ocean in the background. Children and not children alike on the painted horses, screaming and giggling. The lights and colours garish and overbright in the early evening. 

“Do you-?”

“No,” Christian shook his head, as they walked on. Helter Skelter turned out to be an oversized slide about ten metres high. A bright wooden tent shaped thing with the slide snaking around it from top of the stairs to the bottom of the amusement ride like a ribbon. You raced to the top, jumped on a mat and slid all the way down. 

They both decided against it -although it was tempting- because the football season wasn’t yet over. 

Brighton was _cool_ , he had to agree. Walking along the waterfront after training, that was a habit that would never grow old, because the sea always called and soothed. People running along the pebbled beach, the pebbles rattling against each other like macarenas as the tides came flooding in, the constant soundtrack of the sea in the background, restless and soothing at the same time. 

Later, they walked to the end of the Brighton pier, stood at the end that overlooked the sea, the cheers and music and lights and attractions in the background, people screaming in glee tinged terror, the crank of the jingly music you’d hear at circus and carnivals. Christian turned to Vincent, now standing off in a light jacket, his hands tucked into its pockets. In the background, the lightworks vivid, and ever shifting in pops of colour. The default look on Vincent’s face now one of cautious amusement, instead of the pained expression he had at Tottenham. 

He looked good, his hair in its usual short cut, his face already etched in Christian’s heart, but he never tired of looking. Risked stepping across to him, because they were in the shadow of the illuminations, and not many people came this far, five hundred metres out to the sea. Smiling, they rubbed their noses together. Vincent touching Christian’s cheek, stealing a kiss. 

Christian drew back absolutely buzzing- as if powered by the same currents that moved the sea -and turned towards the ocean. Even when the sea supposedly seemed calm, its breeze still strong, tugging at his beanie and light scarf. He could live here, he thought, and understood why people escaped from London to this part of the world as soon as they could afford to.

“I thought,” Christian said eventually, turning his head away from the sea, the wind swift and strong enough to push him away from the railing and towards Vincent. “I thought you didn’t come here because you lived here?”

“I do,” Vincent answered, “but you don’t. I thought I’d give you the grand tour.”

On the way back, Vincent drove them home, and you wouldn’t think it to look at it, but outside the city centre, Brighton and its surrounding areas were steep, Vincent’s Audi stuck in second gear all the way, leaving the lights of the seaside city behind. Outside nothing but winding roads and houses tucked tidily behind remote controlled gates. The beachfront falling away as they drove on winding roads towards Vincent’s home. 

The first time he’d been ever been here, at Vincent’s home in Brighton. A ground flat in a handsome building near a windmill. 

Every other time he visited, he stayed in a hotel, parked his car and hosted Vincent there. This time, Vincent had asked him to leave his car at the hotel and spend the night at his. 

“If you’re unsure,” Vincent said, as they parked in the driveway, and he handed the keys to Christian. “Here. You can have the keys to my car and flat, just in case you don’t want to spend the night and need to leave -”

“No,” Christian shook his head, placing his hand over Vincent’s, not moving until their eyes meet and held, blue and brown. “It’s fine.”

***

“You’re not coming back, are you?” Christian asked, laying on his back, scanning the sky ahead. The night pleasant enough to spread a blanket and lie down on the grass in the back garden. The blanket taking away the chill and hardness of the ground, making the activity comfortable. After March in England which sprang in like a lion and bounced out like a lamb, April nights came in, all fragrant and beautiful, coaxing odors from flowers with their warm days and mild nights, the rains retreating for now. The skies at this time of evening more violet tinged with rose than blue, and no murmurations.

The kitchen door open in the background, the local BBC radio station finished with the news of the day relating to Brighton, before segueing into tunes which were older than their parents, so old they had that faint crackle which folded into the songs becoming a part of their atmosphere, even with digital remastering. 

“Christian --”

“Two months,” Christian whispered in the wind, still staring skyward. 

“Chris,” Vincent rolled over, balancing his weight on his elbows, his face looking down at Christian’s, his eyes already giving the answers Christian didn’t want to hear. “We know it mightn’t be true. Pochettino has his way of playing, and I’m not the type of striker he wants.”

“And you like it here.”

“Well enough, for now.”

“Vince-”

“Let’s not talk about that, please,” Vincent said, pressing his pointer and middle fingers against Christian’s lips for a few seconds. “If it works, it works, if it doesn’t, it doesn’t. Okay?”

Christian could do that, let it go. To survive as a footballer, you needed to be able to compartmentalise. To shove unrelated things into another part of your brain until you needed it. 

“Okay,” he nodded, as Vincent took his hand away.

“Congratulations for getting so far in the Champions League.”

“No trophy this year though,” Christian sighed, the disappointment a weight in his chest. “We might be the best Spurs team not to win anything,” and disappointment didn’t even begin to cover it. He threw an arm over his eyes, willing the images away, another failure that would sting for a while yet. 

“ _Schatje_ ,” Vincent breathed, sliding his arm across Christian’s chest, Christian moving his arm from his eyes in order to anchor Vincent’s arm against his body. “Aren’t we a pair? We sit around telling each other things that make us cry.”

Christian laughed, because Vincent had that talent. “We’re a matched set,” he agreed. “Make me laugh.” 

“ _Ik hou van je_.” Vincent said in the best way. Direct and true. Christian unable to breathe for a minute, the impact of the words hitting home. Finally he mustered up an answer. “That’s not a laughing matter at all, Vincent.”

“It is, if you don’t feel the same way.”

Christian stroked Vincent’s forearm, blinking the grit away from his eyes. Another thing at risk of not getting a win. _It’s only for a year_ , the possibility now a shambles when faced with the reality of everything. Pochettino’s judgement, Vincent’s true footballing level, not knowing where they’d be next year... 

“I’ve made it uncomfortable.”

“No,” Christian shook his head as he reached for Vincent’s hand, pressed his palm against his lips. Held it flush against his cheek. “You’ve made it perfect,” he breathed, closing his eyes for a beat before he opened them and confessed. “I love you too. I don’t know what this means going forward,” he raised his gaze, searching Vincent’s face, seeing all the emotions he felt reflected back at him with the force and clarity of light in refracted glass. “But--” Christian reached for Vincent’s face, and made a promise with his entire being. “I’m willing to see where we go.”

Fin.

**Author's Note:**

> **Notes on fic**
> 
> Dedication: A/N: For itsadrizzit. This is the AU you wanted to write, I think. I hope you get as great a pleasure consuming this effort as you would have done writing it. Happy Christmas! I'm sorry I can't be around right now, but thinking of you warmly! Big hugs! XOXO
> 
>   **Shoutouts and References**
> 
>   * Thanks to analise010 for not flipping at the word count upon reciept of the fic - because she requested 2k words. Whoops.
>   * Thanks to eafay70 for the quick beta job. You're a twinkle twinkle little star! All mistakes are mine
>   * Brighton Zombie Walk [ an annual event for Zombies held around Halloween, in this story Christian comes too early for that ](http://www.brightonpier.co.uk/events/whats-on/walk-dead-brighton-palace-pier)
>   * Choccywoccydoodah [ is a cake making place that's out of this world](https://www.choccywoccydoodah.com/%20). This fic hasn’t done this place justice. Sorry. I handwaved geography a helluva lot, because the place itself is complicated to find. It's in the Lanes, in a warren of shops about 2 km from the seafront. Not too far, then.
>   * Brighton Pleasure Pier. Iirc, this pier is the second pier. The first one got burnt down and is a few miles down shore from this one [the new pier has the Helter Skelter and some other traditional pier side attractions ](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Brighton_Palace_Pier)
>   * Brighton Ghost Walks [take place around The Lanes ](http://ghostwalkbrighton.co.uk/)
>   * The Royal Pavilion - this was a seaside palace built by King George back in the late 19thC, as a holiday home [It's nearer to the beach than you'd think, and there are food places nearby](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/Royal_Pavilion)
>   * The hotel Christian stays at in this story (when he's visiting Vincent) is Hilton Brighton Metropole [on the water front](http://www3.hilton.com/en/hotels/united-kingdom/hilton-brighton-metropole-BSHMETW/index.html?WT.mc_id=zELWAAA0UK1WW2PSH3Nano4DGBrandx&WT.srch=1&utm_source=AdWords&utm_medium=ppc&utm_campaign=paidsearch&campaignid=105816483&adgroupid=5449687923&targetid=kwd-123203719)
> 

> 
> If you've gotten this far, thanks for reading!


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